


We Can Never Go Home Again

by Little_Red92



Series: Breakthroughs Feel a Lot Like Breakdowns [1]
Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Feels, Daxter is a Good Friend, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Jak needs a hug, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post Jak 2, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 06:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17482514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Red92/pseuds/Little_Red92
Summary: In the late hours of the night, when the world seems still, Jak can pretend he is home. Can forget that he is stuck in a city filled with cruelty and dangerous men, has been thrown into a world that makes little sense to him. It was easier to cope when there was a war to fight.  Someone always needed a favour, Torn and Krew’s constant demands and missions kept him running. One objective after the next, always running, running from the past, from the thoughts inside his head. There was no time to miss sunsets at Geyser Rock or think, for even a fraction of a second, about all he endured at the Baron's hands.***The war is over, and the Metal-Head leader is dead, Haven can rebuild and heal after decades of death. Only Jak can't seem to stop, is lost and out of place in this foreign place, unable to heal or face the pain of his past.Daxter is doing all he can to help Jak through the aftermath, but his best friend is falling apart faster then Daxter can catch him.





	We Can Never Go Home Again

**Author's Note:**

> Fic has been re-read and changed a little, nothing major, but I tweaked a few things here and there. I'm much happier with it and am attempting to write a sequel once I work out exactly how I want to handle the rest of Jak's recovery. 
> 
> Okay, this fic might be a little rusty (and is un-beta'd sorry) but it's been like eight years since I wrote a Jak & Daxter fic and after replaying the first three games, I was swarmed with feels and just had to dive back in. My writing style has changed and matured so much since I last a fic with these precious boys that I couldn't resist the urge to step back into this fandom and see what I could create.  
> I was inspired to write Jak's struggle with readjusting to life and coping with anxiety as it was something I never tackled in my older fics. As someone's who dealt with panic attacks and anxiety frequently over the past four years, I found it somewhat therapeutic; I also used my own experience and knowledge gained from therapy in this story.

Home.

It feels so far away.

Home was five hundred years ago. And it's right here, decaying beneath calloused fingers, shifting in the late-night breeze, creaking and shuddering like Jak's weight is too much for its bones to bear. Samos's hut holds together, standing strong against the age of time. Jak settles on the floor with the dust and dirt, tired eyes gazing up at the patchwork ceiling, here is as close to home as he can get. Here memories of bright days and serene nights scatter the swirling thoughts from his mind. Closing his eyes, Jak can imagine the sound of the waves lapping gently against the shore, can smell the salty air and hear Keira tinkering downstairs on one of her latest projects. 

In the late hours of the night, when the world seems far away, Jak can pretend he is home. Can forget that he is stuck in a city filled with cruelty and dangerous men, has been thrown out into a world that makes little sense to him. It was easier to cope when there was a war to fight.  Someone always needed a favour, Torn and Krew’s constant demands and missions kept him running. One objective after the next, always running, running from the past, from the thoughts inside his head. There was no time to miss sunsets at Geyser Rock or think, for even a fraction of a second, about all he endured at the Baron's hands. 

The quiet, peaceful night is disrupted by the tendrils of despair, buried memories threatening to escape. He'd rather feel the twinge of homesickness or the heartache at feeling adrift,  _lost_ , then feel one moment of the pain sitting beneath his skin, deadly as the dark eco pulsating through his veins. If he keeps moving, stays awake until succumbing to sheer exhaustion then he won't have to feel it. Won’t have to remember the torment, the crushing loneliness, the agonising pain of dark eco treatments.

He can run to the ends of the earth, spend every waking moment helping rebuild the city or hunting down the remaining Metal Heads, but he can't outrun his past. There is no corner of his mind left to hide away in; even the brightest memories can shatter in the darkest hours. Eyes snap open, haunting,  _taunting_  memories receding behind tightly sealed curtains. Breathing out a shaky breath, Jak sits up, Samos's hut shifting and creaking beneath him. Time has not been kind to the wooden structure, the foundation may be solid, but the fragile frame is coming down regardless. One day the support beams will collapse from rot, the roof will cave in, and the walls will crumble. 

The last remaining ties to home will be lost. It'll be no more than a pile of bones lost to the passage of time. 

But not tonight.

Tonight, the creaking faded and assured the roof is not about to give in Jak surrenders to the fatigue. The floorboards are cold and uncomfortable beneath his back, splinters and sharp edges dig into jagged scars, the chill of the breeze seeps through the cracks, making him shiver. Jak’s slept in worst places, at least here is familiar enough to create the illusion of safety. Jak hasn't felt safe in two years; he's living in a land of gods and monsters, he doesn't expect to ever feel safe again.

Tonight, he can pretend, will let heavy lids flutter shut and pray,  _hope_  the nightmares won't return. 

But like home, hope is falling to ruins around him.

***

Dawn comes to fast, the first rays of sunlight filter in through the cracks, golden warmth stirring Jak awake. Blinking the fog from tired eyes, Jak slowly sits up, face scrunching in discomfort as scars spasms and tired bones ache. Groaning in misery Jak rises slowly on unsteady legs, God he needs to stop doing this to himself, after everything that's happened his body needs time to heal. Dax is right, they have been to hell and back and deserved some downtime. But staying still isn't an option, the darkness is waiting, memories and two years’ worth of trauma demanding to be felt.

He's so Goddamn frightened to let them in, knows they will capsize him in the churning sea and without the need for revenge, something to fight for, Jak is afraid that he might drown. He's terrified of losing himself to the darkness, to the monster inside his head. The living, breathing reminder of what he'd become.

The beast that was made of him.

Shaking away the swirling thoughts, Jak decides it’s time to return to the city. Last night’s restless mood had forced him to flee, the toxic air and crowded streets left him feeling disoriented, lungs constricting painfully, each ragged breath catching in his gasoline throat. He'd left Dax at the Naughty Ottsel, the urge to run, to escape the towering walls and find a quiet place to hide in were all consuming. The overwhelming feeling drove him to Dead Town, and it wasn't the first time the itch to run had forced him to retreat to the hazardous outskirts of the city.

Jak didn't understand what the hell was happening to him, the overwhelming fear, the blinding panic were unfamiliar,  _uncontrollable_. There was nothing left to fear, though, he was free, the Baron and Erol were dead, the Metal Leader destroyed. Yet he kept getting worse; the fear was twisting and turning into something else, something that scared him as much as the dark eco transformations. Jak tried to see reason, discarding the thoughts before they can make a home in his mind. He is tired and strung out, all this running around is burning him out, he’d eventually need to come to a standstill.

As the heavy metal doors slid open revealing the hazy city streets Jak resigned himself to a day’s rest. Jak wasn’t ignorant to the fact he’d endured far more than any seventeen-year-old should, he was painfully aware of how different he was to the carefree boy who’d set out on a grand adventure to help return his best friend to human form. That version of himself was gone, snuffed out by cruelty like he’d never known before, innocence stolen by violent acts.

The boy he used to be was lost to the unkindness of strangers.

This angry, jaded and mutated young man was what emerged from the ashes. A victor, but no longer a hero, that shiny title belonged to the boy who’d saved the world with a pure heart. Nightmarish days in the Baron’s prison stripped away the golden child, the war shattering the last tendrils of youth. War and suffering have changed him irrevocably, that’s something Jak could live with, none of them made it through the previous two years unscathed, but the Baron had created a monster, one that took lives so carelessly, so callously.

No matter how hard he fought it or how much he tried to deny it, that monster was a part of him. And he even though he’d saved Haven City the people within still feared him. Wary, frightened eyes followed Jak to the port, whispers floating towards him. The autumn winds carry cruel words to his ears, by now Jak had heard it all, hell after two years in prison he’d been called so many degrading names that he should be immune to them by now. But he’s not. He tries though, tries so damn hard to not let the whispers sink in, pretends he doesn’t see the judgemental, _frightened_ looks.

He can’t let them know, can’t afford to show any weakness, because if he tripped if he stumbled, they would eat him alive.

The Naughty Ottsel finally appeared in the distance, Daxter’s oversized statue a bright beacon of hope lighting up the bleak morning. Dark grey clouds gather over the city walls, the air smelling with the promise of rain, thunder echoing softly in the distance, making the dark eco beneath Jak’s skin crackle. Jak disliked Haven’s thunderstorms. The cell he was held captive in had a leak right above the rickety cot, icy droplets landing on his forehead, a small reminder that the world still existed outside those four walls.

Jak would tilt his face up, mouth opening to catch the next droplet, it tasted of rust and bitterness, nothing like the sweet rain that fell over Sandover. Curling up under the threadbare covers, tears welling in his eyes, Jak listened to the steady drip, drip, drip, imaging the water flooding the gritty cell, gathering with his tears, rising and rising until he was submerged. He’d open his mouth, salt water rushing in down a sandpaper throat to fill screamed out lungs.  

Stepping inside Jak forces the memories away, trembling hand reaching up absentmindedly to touch the phantom droplets. Fingers coming away dry have Jak dropping his is arm with a heavy sigh, his hand jostles against his hip, dull pain sparking from where an injury never healed properly. Wincing at the discomfort Jak folded his arms over his chest, eyes surveying the dank, dimly lit bar for Daxter. He’d really appreciate some loud chatter right about now, anything to silence the churning thoughts and scatter the unpleasant memories.

“Dax?” he calls out, voice reverberating in the quiet room.

There is the sound of breaking glass followed by the steady patter of paws hitting the ground, a moment later Daxter emerges from behind the bar, skidding to a holt at Jak’s feet. Daxter glares up at him, folding tiny, furry arms over a puffed-out chest. Dax is annoyed; it’s strange to have it directed at him, this expression is usually reserved for Samos or Torn, it stirs awake a trickle of guilt. Jak hadn’t intended to leave without telling Daxter where he was going, but the bar was too crowded, the smoke-tainted air filling up his lungs, sitting alongside the fear. The need to escape quickly became overwhelming.

Jak took off into the night. Fear he couldn’t shake chasing him to Dead Town, to the only place left that offered a glimmer of the life left behind. Jak didn’t stop to consider that Dax would worry about him, swirling thoughts and constricting lungs stripped him of all thought and reason. Dax has every right to be upset. The look is fading from his face though, eyes softening and ears drooping. A quick shake of the head and Daxter bounces up onto his shoulder, the familiar weight comforting in so many ways.

“Next time you decide to up and vanish, please at least leave a note.” Dax’s tone was light, but Jak could hear the unspoken words, see the flicker of worry in blue eyes.

“Sorry, Dax, it won’t happen again.” He promised, offering an apologetic smile and a thinly veiled excuse. “I just needed some fresh air.”

“Look, I get it, this place gets a little crowded, but I have a solution and a far safer place for us to retreat to.”

“Do you just?” Jak asked, brow quirking in curiosity.

Daxter jumped to the floor, arms making a grand gesture towards the back door that led to the storage room. “Follow me if you will.”

Jak glanced from Dax to the storage room, curious and cautious, he followed him past the bar and into the dusty, cobweb riddled confined space. Jak’s never ventured into the depths of the building, the saloon its self was uninviting enough. The air reeked of cigarettes and stale beer, the many eyes of the slain Metal Heads were unsettling. Not even Dax’s small touches could change how Jak felt about this place.

Krew’s presence lingered a phantom lurking in the shadows, the unsavoury things he’d done staining the walls. Jak had never been afraid of Krew, his wicked nature paled in comparison to the Baron and Erol’s, but the man was disconcerting, and his vile nature filled up every inch of this gritty, grimy bar. Hell, even the old Underground bunker was more pleasant then the former Haven Saloon, not that Jak would ever tell Dax that of course, he seemed to enjoy working here alongside Tess. They also needed a livelihood since bartering stopped being used as a form of currency over three hundred years ago.

The world had changed vastly, and Jak honestly had no idea how to assimilate back into it, everything he learnt growing up was useless, what skills he did have were no longer in use now there wasn’t a war to fight. It was overwhelming; the city was a fast-paced concrete jungle that sat on the verge of ruins, it was a cruel and dangerous time to live in. While Daxter worked and if Torn or Ashelin didn’t need his assistance, Jak would break free of the towering city walls and retreat to Haven Forest or hide away in Samos’s hut. If the weather took a turn for the worst, then he’d head to the stadium, spending time working on zoomers with Keira while trying to bridge the impossible gap between them.

Everyone, _everything_ is so different now. Jak’s been fundamentally changed by the dark eco and the cruel things done to him. Slotting back into his friends’ lives has been difficult, and after losing so much, after having so much taken from him, Jak desperately wants to hold on to what little he has left. Different or not. Even Daxter has changed in their two years apart. On the surface he’s the same smart-mouthed, wise-cracker Jak met on Sentinel Beach, but now the dust has settled there is a maturity arising in him that Jak never noticed before. He takes care of them, makes sure they have somewhere to sleep and food to eat and works at the Ottsel to provide them with these things because they no longer have guardians to look after them.

For the last two months, they lived at the bunker; some nights spent sleeping in abandoned buildings or under a canopy of trees in Haven Forest. They are two seventeen-year-olds living in a dystopian future, fending for themselves day after day. This was not what Jak envisioned when gazing into the rift gate. That innocent boy couldn’t have imagined the horror’s the future would hold, would never dream of a world so hopeless and violent.

Everything has changed, but amongst the chaos and foreign world, Daxter is offering a safe place. An escape. Jak needs that more than he’s able to admit. The storage room, however, is hardly a place of sanctuary. It reminds Jak a little too much of the prison cell he was kept in, dark, cold and damp. Remove all the clutter and Metal Head remains, and Jak could believe he was back there. The darkness settles against his skin like a cold mist, heart skipping a beat, breath hitching as something inside him releases a tidal wave of terror.

It feels an awful lot like drowning, a little like dying.

It’s petrifying.

Fighting against the swell of panic, Jak stumbles in the dark, hands searching for a switch, for Daxter, for anything that will remind him that he is not trapped in that God-forsaken prison cell again. The urge to run returns, a deadly force awakening in his bones, taking air from straining lungs. Failing to find a light source the panic pushes Jak towards the nearest exit, it’s not the way he came in, but it’s away, it’s somewhere other than the dark.

The second room is unfamiliar and just as overcrowded as the last, but it’s bigger, light seeping in through grim covered windows, scattering the darkness and with it the overwhelming sense of fear. Jak sags against the wall, legs trembling, threatening to buckle but he won’t fall, scared that if he does, he’ll never get back up. Daxter is eyeing him suspiciously, he isn’t blind to Jak’s distress, but he knows well enough to leave him alone. Daxter motions for him to follow, Jak isn’t sure where they are, though the storage room couldn’t have led them far. Daxter leads him up a steep staircase to a narrow hallway with floors that creak worse than the ones in Samos’s hut.

There is an open door which Dax gestures enthusiastically at.

“Welcome home!”

Home… the word tugs at Jak’s heart. Haven will never feel like home, but he doesn’t want to disappoint Daxter, so he crosses the threshold, stepping into what appears to be an abandoned apartment. It’s not exactly homely; it’s not much of anything, just a room crammed with boxes, old newspapers and empty bottles. Surveying the dimly lit room Jak takes note of the furniture scattered sparsely about the place, there’s a broken chair sitting at a slanted table, a stained and torn navy-blue couch stands in front of the dust-coated red bricked wall, and at the far end, behind a flimsy moth-eaten curtain, a mattress sits atop a wooden pallet.

This place is a mess. Smells of mildew and rot. It’s a bleak, hopeless pit of despair made of chipped walls, creaking wooden floorboards and cracked windows. And now it’s home or at least a shelter. There is a lot of work that needs to be done, which suits Jak fine. The demons are howling at the door, memories slithering and sneaking from their tightly sealed rooms, nightmares waiting for him in the dead of night.

He must keep going.

Stay awake, don’t let thoughts wander, keep moving, keep running then maybe,  _hopefully,_  everything will be alright.

**~~X~~**

Sixteen days after Jak and Daxter officially move in the radiator dies, which isn’t that surprising since Jak is certain no one has actually lived in this place in at least a year. It stops in the middle of the night; Jak startles awake, the tendrils of a nightmare clinging to him like cobwebs, turning shadows into monsters. Instinctively he reaches for the morph gun, prepared to add more bullet holes to the walls when Daxter flicks on the lamp, the golden glow scattering the monsters. Dax doesn’t comment on Jak aiming the gun at a potted fern, by now he’s grown used to these displays and offers only reassurance that they are safe in a light-hearted, teasing manner that tapers off when the heater makes a God-awful sputter.

There is silence, Jak stares at the thing, waiting for it to kick back in or catch on fire. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if it did. When neither of these things happen Jak groans, flopping back down and resigning to their fate. Dax insists they will freeze to death, Jak is painfully aware of how cold Haven can get, but he hadn’t frozen in the Baron’s prison and they aren’t going to freeze tonight. He mumbles something about getting Keira to look at in the morning then drifts off, waking just before dawn to the cold seeping into his bones.

He doesn’t get much sleep after that, the chill in the air tugs at his mind, pulling him to darker places. He is carried on the black sea to days he longs to forget, memories twisting and distorting, creating hellish landscapes and setting free memories he wished to forget. As the sun rises, the smallest sliver of warmth spilling into the frigid room, Jak gives in and gets up. He’s grateful Daxter introduced him to coffee because he’s sure as hell going to need it today.

Jak spends the rest of early dawn curled up on the couch, trying desperately to keep it together. Thoughts spiral in the quiet, lonely hours. He should go for a walk or shower to chase the cold from his bones, but he’s so damn tired that he doesn’t even have the energy to move. He wishes he could sleep as soundless as Daxter, even in the crisp morning air Dax slumbers deeply, ears twitching as he dreams. Dax always slept like the dead. Jak can still recall when a storm rolled in one-night, ominous clouds gathering above Misty Island before blowing over Sandover, uprooting trees and damaging huts and snapping the bridge to Sentinel Beach. Jak watched the storm with fascination while Daxter slept, waking at dawn to the tale-end of the rain. Dax could sleep through anything; it was admirable and comforting to see something remained the same.

Jak falls asleep at some point, tired mind and fragile body giving in to exhaustion. This time there are no tormenting dreams, no memories trickling out of the dark. When he wakes, he doesn’t feel as heavy. Bright light fills the apartment, making Jak wince, he groans as he untangles himself from the blanket, wrist twinging from where’d fallen asleep on it. He rubs at the aching spot, flinching at the touch, stomach twisting as his sleeve rides above the scars. He hates them, the very sight of them leaves him cold, leaves a feeling he can’t explain growing,  _festering_  in his chest. He swallows the lump building in his throat pulls the sleeves securely over the ruined flesh.

“Good morning sleepy head!” Daxter leaps onto the coffee table, it wobbles slightly, but his cheery mood is unaffected. “I’m making bacon and eggs and have already taken the liberty of calling Keira, so we don’t freeze to death.” Quick as a flash, he bounds the short distance to the kitchen, landing in one smooth jump next to the coffee pot. “She’ll be by some time after lunch.” He pours two cups of coffee, adds far too much sugar to his own and holds out the unsweetened one out for Jak. “Restless night?”

“Had better,” he shrugged, accepting the mug from Daxter, “had worse too.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Daxter gives him this intense look that is screaming for him to say more, but the words remain trapped. There is so much to say, so many horror tales to tell, speaking them feels impossible. Sometimes the words rise, sit sharp and loaded at the base of his throat, desperate to be set free, pain demanding to be felt, but fear steals his voice and silence stretches on between them. Jak is rendered mute once more, and eventually, Daxter gives up and fills the silence with idle chatter.

The morning passes relatively fast, Daxter cooks breakfast, talks more then he breathes, and Jak washes up. It’s so ordinary that if it weren’t for the bitterly cold air and distant noise of the city Jak could fool himself into thinking they were back at Sandover. The normalcy is welcome; there is something comforting about the mundane tasks, the familiarity scattering the last tendrils of the nightmares. Daxter lingers in the doorway before heading down to the bar; Jak can sense his eyes on him, feel all those unasked questions hanging heavy in the air.

Eventually, he leaves, the apartment is far too quiet without him, the walls closing in, shadows shifting into monsters once more. Jak could help Dax do inventory, or he could see if Torn needs help with anything, but there is an in invisible force preventing him from leaving. The very idea of stepping foot outside is suddenly terrifying. The fear is so overwhelming it catches in his throat, lungs constricting as he gasps for air. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, there is an urge to flee pulsating beneath his skin and a desire to hide stirring awake in a fraying mind. The chaos raging inside Jak’s head leaves him sinking to the floor.

He can’t control these episodes of panic any more than he can the dark echo coursing through his veins.

And it’s getting worse each day.

It started with the nightmares, which began swiftly and violently not two days after Daxter rescued him from prison.  Jak would startle awake in the dead of night, scream dying on his tongue, hands flailing in the air, fighting monsters that were no longer there. Nightmares Jak could deal with, avoiding sleep was possible, running until he physically passed out from exhaustion was only too easy. But this, whatever the hell this crushing sense of fear was, is too much to handle. He’s afraid of the city outside these walls, and he’s scared of the monsters living in his head.

The rage has grown cold, the fire that fuelled him faded to embers, _to ash_ and he doesn’t know how to fix it. Jak doesn’t know if  _he_  can be fixed. He doesn’t just have to live with the dark eco flowing through his veins; he has to live with the memories of every awful, twisted thing that was done to him. Jak was so sure he’d die, that the dark eco would one day tear him apart, the way it had all the others. Dark eco killed everyone eventually and yet he was the one who lived.

The one who endured the most, who was rescued while everyone else died alone in their cells, screaming in agony until the bitter end.

Daxter freed him, and for two months the thought of getting revenge kept him going. It was easier to focus on the anger rather than feel the hurricane brewing within, threatening to destroy him. Anger was useful, it burnt bright alongside the dark eco and pushed him to the end. Anger waned, fire dwindling without a source to keep it burning. Jumbled thoughts swirl through Jak’s mind, short nails digging into the soft flesh of palms, the sharp sting anchoring him to the present.

He breathes out the chaos and inhales the frigid air. Panic brought him to his knees, ripped every ounce of strength from this aching body. He’d never told Daxter this but the dark eco hurts, it lingers like a constant electric jolt beneath his skin, aches deep down into fragile bones. Some days it’s worse, sometimes it's borderline agonising. There’s nothing Jak can do though; there is nothing anyone can do to help him.

He is ruined, _tainted._

There’s no undoing this.

Jak grits his teeth and pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He takes a tentative step forward, feeling unsteady, heart pounding like a war drum in a broken chest and tired eyes struggling to stay open. He really should talk to Daxter, tell him what is going on before it reaches breaking point. Before  _he_  reaches breaking point. He should tell Daxter a lot of things, but every time Jak tries the words lodge in his throat, trapped, _stuck_. Playing pretend is far more appealing than facing the truth, than releasing the hurricane of God-awful memories.

Denial is a powerful emotion, but he can’t run from this pain forever.

For now, he’s sure as hell going to try.

***

Distractions have become Jak’s favourite go to when avoiding the ever-growing list of things that are wrong with him. The apartment being left in such a state-of-disarray had been a blessing in disguise. It took a week to clean the place from top to bottom, and the endless work was precisely what Jak needed. Once the grime and dirt were scrubbed away and the worst of the holes in the walls filled, Jak started to see the potential. It would never be Sandover, home was gone, was coming down in ruins at Dead Town, but this place could be a close second.

A few lush houseplants here and there, an assortment of colourful art to liven up the walls, a string of red lanterns to light up the night and some second-hand furniture had the apartment feeling liveable. It was almost home. Almost something hopeful and safe, until the sun went down. Jak was slowly beginning to realise he was developing a fear of the dark, most nights he left the lanterns on, their soft glow standing strong against the dark and all the monsters that dwelled within it.

Jak knew he’d eventually have to get over it; there was nothing to be afraid of once the lights went out. Only the cold, and Keira was currently fixing the broken radiator, so hopefully tonight Jak wouldn’t be woken by nightmares, left to restlessly pace the apartment until the break of day. It’s doubtful. If anything, the nightmares have gotten worse. Memories of adventure filled days under a golden sun twist into days of torment and anguish. Bright, glittery memories of Sandover distort into running from the Krimson guards through the dilapidated streets of Haven City, only to be caught, to be forced back in the chair.

Jak shudders, towering walls rising to keep the remnants of last night’s bad dreams at bay. Focusing on Keira, the darkness drifts away, sagging against the wall Jak exhales the unpleasant filling that’s been sitting beneath his ribs all day. Inhaling the crisp air, letting it sooth the burn of gasoline lungs, Jak finds a sliver of peace, feeling at ease for the first time that day. Helping Keira was familiar, it was a ritual that Jak didn’t realise he’d missed until now.

Growing up they spent countless hours tinkering on her latest inventions together, the friendly behaviour turning flirtatious as the years passed by. Things were different now, Keira’s radiant confidence, her curious and vibrant personality had been subdued by her time alone. The coy smiles, lingering stares and subtle touches were no longer present. Jak was too afraid to be touched, and Keira was smart enough to pick up on it. It left them in a strange yet familiar silence, though the air was charged with the things left unsaid. The thing is, Jak doesn’t know how to talk to Keira, he spent the first fifteen years of his life mute, talking to her had never been an option.

Now it was possible, he didn’t know what to say. Structuring sentences were new to him, speaking still felt foreign. He didn’t want to lose her though, not again, not when there was still something there. Keira was home, was long days spent under the summer sun and nights lying on the grass, counting the stars. There had to be away back to her, to something akin to the bright, hopeful days of a carefree childhood. There had to be more than the darkness growing within his heart, dragging him further from the people he loved. There had to be hope for him, for them.

“I guess some things never change,” he says, words clumsy in his mouth.

Keira glanced towards him, lips quirking into a soft smile. “Fixing things kept me sane over the last two years.” She replied, the smile faltering. “I was incredibly lucky my skill set could help the Underground and offer me a source of income.” The smile slipped from her face, sorrow dulling the bright green of her eyes. “It was difficult adjusting to a world so different to the one we knew.”

“You seemed to have done alright.” Jak knows precisely how terrifying it is to find oneself in a strange world, to be separated from loved ones. It’s hell, and yet they made it, they all survived and somehow, _somehow_ fate reunited them. For that Jak is grateful, he might be broken, irrevocably changed, but at least Keira and Daxter have a chance at being happy again.

“I managed,” she turned away, failing to hide the shimmer in her gaze. “I miss home though.”

“So, do I,” he admitted, hating to see the slump in her shoulders, hear the misery in her voice. “I miss the simple things, like using fires to keep warm.”

“It’s a safety hazard,” Keira blinked the tears from her eyes, looking back at Jak with a bemused smile that had his heart skipping a beat. He knew that smile, had seen that grin whenever Daxter was telling tall tales, or she was about to respond to someone with a witty retort. “Besides, from what I hear, you and Dax seem to be constantly knocking down buildings and blowing up things, so it’s probably best you stick with the radiator.” She tapped the handle of the screwdriver on it for good measure, adding a playful wink.

“Hey, we were asked to knock down buildings and blow up stuff,” he replied, feeling a smile tug at his lips. “Well, most of the time.”

“You get to have all the fun.” She declared, turning back towards the busted heater.

“Comes with the gig.”

A comfortable silence fell over them, a few moments later and the radiator sputtered back to life. Keira grinned triumphantly, reminding Jak of the fourteen-year-old who built the first ever zoomer. Haven City hadn’t dulled her spark, after all, the dedicated, curious, genius girl still thrived, she’d just grown up. They’d all been forced to grow up; Haven City wasn’t a place for innocent youths. Keira and Dax would have had to learn fast and hard how to survive in this wicked world.

“When you arrived here, in Haven, what happened?” Jak has never asked her this; there hadn’t been much time to ask such loaded questions while the war was raging and, in the aftermath, he’d become too obsessed with chasing the past to bring it up. Jak always feared that she’d return the question, ask him what happened in the Baron’s prison and the mere thought of telling her was gut-wrenching. She knew of the dark eco treatments, knew he was different now that he had the power to change into a monster, but she didn’t know the rest. No one did. Jak isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to free the words if anyone asked him.

Keira’s brow quirks, the question catching her off guard. “I landed not far from the Underground, in the northern slums, the first few hours are kind of a blur, to be honest. I was disoriented and scared; I remember it was raining, but I didn’t feel the cold, I was numb. I must have wandered around for at least six hours or more. I don’t know what would have happened to me if Tess hadn’t found me.” Keira fiddles with the screwdriver, the words spoken linger in the space between them. “I thought I’d lost you,” dark lashes flutter, chasing tears from her eyes, “I thought I lost all of you.”

“I’m sorry, Keira,” instinctively Jak reaches for her, hesitating midway, scared that his touch might frighten her, his hand landing on the handle of the screwdriver instead. “I’m glad you were okay. This place isn’t safe.” His stomach twists, unwanted memories flickering in the back of his mind, stirring awake the forgotten rage, causing a jolt of dark eco to skitter across his skin. The screwdriver clatters to the floor, Keira recoils, startled, Jak’s heart sinks. “Keira, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine; it’s alright.” To Jak’s surprise, she reached for his hand, her delicate fingers lacing through his. Jak’s heart stuttered in a chest filling with warmth; tears quickly blinked away gather in his eyes. “I’m not afraid of you, Jak. Please don’t ever think that I am or that I will push you away because of what the Baron did to you.” She squeezes his hand, her touch warm, like fire, like hope. “I didn’t understand at first what was done to you, and that’s why I lashed out, and I’m sorry for that. I should have said that sooner, my behaviour was unacceptable.”

Keira lowered her gaze in shame. “I wanted everything to be the same again, and when I saw you, I realised it never would be,” glistening, regret-filled eyes swept up to meet Jak’s, “and that’s not your fault. I was foolishly holding onto the past. I had this fantasy of going home, and then everything would be fine, the past two years just a bad dream.” She trailed off, biting her lip in a tale tell sign that she was about to cry. Instead, she takes a steadying breath, long lashes fluttering to chase the tears from her eyes. “We can never go home,” her voice is laced with heartache, longing, but Keira lifts her chin, acceptances and determination cresting over her, strong enough that Jak feels it too, “but we can make a new one.”

“Home is with you, Keira,” the words leave his tongue on their own accord, springing free to settle in the space between them, falling like snowflakes on their skin.

A warm, summer bright smile graces Keira’s face, eyes shining with hope and love, glittering like a thousand pretty stars in the night sky. “Then you’ll always be home, Jak.”

**~~X~~**

There’s no place like home, Daxter thinks as he slipped in through the front door late one night. Haven isn’t exactly home, it’s worn out streets, and dilapidated buildings couldn’t hold a candle to Sandover’s beautiful white sand beaches and seemingly endless blue sea. The Naughty Ottsel and the small, rundown apartment was as close to home as he and Jak were going to get, so he might as well make the best of it. At least Haven’s treacherous streets and hazardous environment were improving under Ashelin’s reign, Daxter believed things were finally going to start getting better.

Well better than the last two years at least.

Anything would be better than roaming the streets, facing down metal heads and dangerous, _monstrous_ foes. It was time to start over, to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives and build something new, something stronger than before. Of course, it would never be that simple, Daxter was hopeful but not foolish, despite what some people thought of him. Daxter has no problem with unpacking and making a home here, the last two years had taught him how to survive this heartless city, but for Jak, it wasn’t going to be that simple.

He could see Jak was struggling with adjusting to this fast-paced, technologically advanced world. Jak was a fast learner, always had been. The golden boy of Sandover, who was inquisitive and eager to learn, still lingered beneath the cracked surface. If fitting in were all Daxter had to worry about, then he wouldn’t be up late working to make sure they had a roof over their head and food on the table. Had Jak not become riddled with anxiety then he would have seamlessly integrated back into society. Charm and heroism making him trustworthy, likeable. Jak’s natural desire to help others would have paved the way too many golden opportunities.

But the sweet, boy who pulled his scrawny ass out of the ocean at just five years old is gone forever and what’s left isn’t ready to face the slowly rebuilding world. Jak’s not the angry, revenge-driven mess who Daxter freed from prison but he’s still miles away from the boy he used to be. The heroism is still there. That heart of gold hasn’t been completely broken; it’s just overshadowed by anger, spark dulled by trauma. This haunted, jaded version can’t join the Freedom Fighters because his ability to transform into a ‘monster’ is a liability and why the hell should Jak help rebuild a city that looks upon him with such disdain.

Daxter doesn’t quite know what to do with his best friend. He doesn’t know how to fix this. The dark eco can’t be removed, and Daxter can’t take the pain away or erase the memories. He tries, he _tries_ so damn hard to reignite the fire he knows is still burning within Jak. If he can fan those embers into flames then maybe, _just maybe_ he might be able to save his best friend. It’s not easy with Jak being so prickly, moods fickle, as changeable as the weather. Daxter gets it, he’d be pretty pissed off too if someone experimented on him, but he can’t, he _won’t_ let Jak drown in his bitter sorrow.

Which means things are going to have to change. He’s allowed Jak to dwell in his misery, to distract himself with missions and endless tasks. Jak deserved a chance to adjust, and Daxter has given him plenty of opportunities to confide in him. Night after night he is woken by terrified screams, day after day he waits for Jak to talk about them, to tell him something, _anything._ He never does, and things are only getting worse. It’s always darkest before dawn, as Samos used to say, and right now its pitch black and dawn is a long way off.

Daxter is standing in the dark with a single match and its burning down fast, but he’s always held tight to hope.

**~~X~~**

Today’s a good day, well it’s better than usual, and considering the last few nights have been plagued with nightmares, Dax is going to take this win. He’s managed to encourage Jak down to the bar; the guy had seriously spent far too many days hauled up in the apartment. Jak had always been outgoing, curiosity leading them on many misadventures, had a knack for getting into mischief putting them in some hairy situations. Current fuzzy, orange form case and point. Seeing Jak’s excitement for life dulled was disheartening, watching him hide away from the slowly healing city was a reminder that Jak had a long road of recovery ahead of him. Daxter knew Jak wasn’t avoiding responsibilities due to being an angry, troubled teenager. No, Jak was hiding from the world because it hurt him profoundly.

Jak survived two years of torture and imprisonment, freedom delivered anger, a thirst for blood and the end of the war revealed the traumatised child within. Daxter had seen first-hand what the cruelty of this city did to people. It didn’t just crush all hope and cage fragile souls inside a fortress, it took and took until there was nothing left but dead eyes and empty hearts. The people of Haven were depressed, anxiety-riddled and left without hope for years on end. Hell, Daxter was familiar with all these things after everything he’d endured during his time alone.

Jak suffered the worst fate out of all of them, though and Daxter was honestly surprised that the anger had fuelled him for as long as it did. That was Jak though, stubborn as they come, but always forgiving in the end or, in this case, able to let some of the anger go. The rage was dangerous, borderline scary at times, but it at least kept Jak fighting, helped them defeat Kor and survive the wicked games this city played on them. The rage faded as the Oracle helped tame the dark eco and Dax started to see glimpses of the heroic, curious, kind-hearted boy from Sandover.

The anxiety was stronger though, the nightmares far more powerful and Jak was left falling into a kingdom of despair, protective walls rising high, keeping Daxter out. Jak was slipping into the dark, and soon Daxter wouldn’t be able to reach him. Daxter had vowed to encourage Jak to open up, had a whole conversation planned and everything, one that involved explaining to Jak that what he was feeling right now was perfectly normal. Daxter knows Jak is somewhat clueless to what is happening to him; hell, Dax would be too if he hadn’t been around traumatised and broken people regularly for the past two years.

Jak is suffering from post-traumatic stress, and he doesn’t even know it. The peaceful, sun bright days of Sandover were no more; the future was here. They’d arrived in a bleak, heartless world, full of people haunted by war and loss.  The most dramatic thing that ever happened to Jak growing up was the time he got stung by a nest of Wumpbee’s on his ninth birthday. The villagers of Sandover were cheerful, optimistic, kind and if anyone had experienced depression or anxiety, it was kept from the children. Innocents was stolen, lost to the past, crushed by the hands of the wicked. Life used to be sunshine and rainbows, days of venture and joy, sorrow and fear only ever felt in the slightest ways.

Daxter’s point is, he made a silent promise to help Jak heal since no one else was stepping in to do so. He wasn’t certain how exactly he was meant to navigate this foreign path, but for his best friend he sure as hell was going to try. And like all things, it would take time and patience. Today was a start though, getting Jak away from yet another renovation project and out into the world, was a step in the right direction. Jak’s mood had improved considerably after Keira’s visit; they must have patched the rift between them, which Daxter is grateful for. Those two were crazy for each other, much to his younger self’s annoyance.

He hadn’t liked sharing Jak; he was the only true friend Daxter ever had, has wasn’t giving that up without a fight. He doesn’t view Keira as a threat anymore; he missed her, missed the three of them spending time together. He also hated seeing Jak upset and the wedge Erol and two God-damn years drove between him and Keira had played a part in his troubled mood. It was one less problem he had to tackle, one less heartache and loss Jak had to endure.

So, he’d be grateful for small blessings.

 “A little higher,” he calls from the counter, watching Jak’s balance wobble on the rickety ladder, “and a little more to the left.”

“Dax it’s straight.” Jak glared down at him, pointing to his new and quite frankly fabulous life-like portrait. “Seriously, is this necessary?”

“Well, I needed something to decorate the walls with.” Daxter’s head tilts to the left then to the right, squinting slightly, he swears it’s slightly off centre.

Jak rolls his eyes, a smirk playing at his lips. “Fine, whatever. Can I come down before I break my neck?” the ladder teeters with the slightest movement, a promise that it will surely send Jak crashing to the hard floor below.

Jak’s playful mood lifts Daxter’s spirits; it’s a familiar and welcome sight. It also throws a spanner in Daxter’s plan to bring up Jak’s trauma; he doesn’t want to ruin this moment. Seeing Jak light-hearted and those broad shoulders unburdened is a rare sight; Daxter doesn’t want to be the one to darken this brighter day. But he knows they must talk about this eventually, it’s not going to go away or get any better if they keep up this game of pretending everything is fine when it’s really fucking not.

Shit.

Shit!

“You know what this place needs,” Daxter jumps down from the bar, strolling towards the wrestling pit, “something eye-grabbing! Something to entertain those who frequent this fine establishment!” he leaps onto the wooden pillar. “The people need to be entertained Jak!” he makes a wide gesture, all bedazzle and overhyped excitement. “What’d ya say about us getting some real wrestlers in here.” He punches at the air, feeling the razzle and dazzle fizz in his stomach. He is a coward; he is failing Jak, filling the air with pointless conversation instead of addressing the storm looming over them. “We could make some extra bucks, give the people something to see while they try our finest assortment of beverages.”

Jak shakes his head, hand resting on his hip in that impatient manner of his. “Dax, Ashelin has made all gambling activities illegal, were you even paying attention in the last meeting?”

“No.” he admits, he never pays attention in those things. It’s Ashelin job to run the city, not his or Jak’s, they’d done enough, and the thanks they received was almost non-existent. It was only the other day that Daxter overheard a group of unsavoury patrons whispering about them and their ties to Krew. Lies were spreading fast, lines were being drawn, and Daxter feared that the new life they’d built would soon be under threat. “How about a television then?”

Jak looked to the wrestling pit, expression thoughtful, he was about to respond when Daxter interrupted him.

“If your answer is a plant, I swear to the Precursors I will hit you.” Ever since moving into the apartment Jak has brought home several different plants of varying varieties. Dax gets it, he misses home, so does he, but the apartment is a few ferns away from being a jungle. If it makes Jak happy though, Daxter won’t argue, but the Naughty Ottsel is his baby, and it’s messy enough from the drunken people who come in here, let alone foliage.

“What have you got against nature, Dax?”

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it,” he waves Jak off, tone even and calm like the ocean at Geyser Rock during a calm spring day, “when it’s outside!” he raised his pitch a couple of notches, making Jak wince. This place really carried an echo when it was just the two of them.

“This city has made you soft,” Jak quipped, stepping closer to ruffle Daxter’s fur.

“Oh, you wanna fight?” he holds out a fist, beaconing Jak closer with his left paw. “Bring it on tough guy! You’ll be begging me for mercy.”

The light vanishes from Jak’s eyes, snuffed out in the space of a heartbeat, expression twisting, contorting in pain that breaks way to the angry snarl of the beast. It only takes seconds, the transformation almost seamless, but Daxter knows better. He knows the agony it causes Jak, the dark eco jolts hot and violent through his friends’ veins, forcing claws from fingertips, piercing horns slicing through bone and skin to emerge in a tangled mess of white hair. It takes less than a minute for Jak to change, but from Daxter’s terrifying vantage point it might as well take centuries.

But then the claws are coming towards him and time speeds up. Daxter lurches to the left, narrowly avoiding being sliced in half, paws slipping on the titles, desperate for purchases before springing to safety. He loops around, ascending the ladder and jumping onto the picture frame, gripping it for dear life. He doesn’t understand what the hell is happening. Jak was fine, well, as fine as he could be considering everything, but he certainly didn’t seem like he was about to tear this place and him apart.

Which means it’s his fault, this mess unfolding is because he opened his damn mouth and said the wrong thing. Daxter’s grips falters, nails slipping, Jak rages in the bar below. Daxter either jumps down there and fixes this colossal fuck up, or he stays up being a coward while Jak destroys everything. If Tess or Keira walked in Jak would shred them to pieces, he’d have more blood on his hands, and it would be Daxter’s fault.

Time to be brave, time to start fixing the shattered mess the Baron cruelly created.

Time to be the hero for once.

Taking a deep, unsteady breath Daxter jumps down, silent and quick, moving cautiously towards Jak, who’s eyeing off the front door. He can’t let him get outside; the city is already afraid of him, this would only do more damage to their already bad reputation. Daxter still doesn’t know what to make of his friends alter ego, it’s still Jak and yet it isn’t. It’s rage and anguish twisted by dark eco, pain and trauma channelled into a dangerous being, into something akin to a monster. Beneath the colourless skin and sharp fangs is his best friend, not a heartless beast or demon come out to play.

This is not who Jak is, it’s what the Baron created, what the dark eco turned him into. Anger and fear trigger the transformation, what Daxter is faced with is PTSD given a living form. He can reach Jak though; he has many times before. It doesn’t stop him from being terrified though, one quick slash of those claws and Daxter’s entrails would be all over the sticky bar floor. He trusts Jak, knows he has more control than he believes. Taking another deep breath, he stands up, hands held out in surrender, showing that he is weaponless and means no harm.

“Jak, pal, buddy, it’s me,” his voice wobbles, “it’s Daxter. You remember me?” Jak snarls, taking a step forward and Daxter’s heartbeat quickens. “We met on Sentinel beach when I was like five? You saved me from drowning like the big damn hero you are.” Jak’s expression twitches, skin flickering with colour. “You’re safe Jak.” He says, at last, knowing the words will be heard, that they will sink in and start working Jak free of the eco. “It’s over, buddy, I got you out. You’re safe.  _We’re safe_.”

Jak stumbles, crumples to the ground, writhing in agony as the dark eco recedes, muffled groans escaping into the air. Like a broken doll with its string cut, Jak falls back against the bar, emotionless black gaze fading to sorrowful ocean eyes. There is a tense moment of silence, air heavy with laboured breathing and charged with the remnants of dark eco. Abruptly Jak jumps to his feet, Daxter can see that he is about to run, to disappear into the city, into himself but he can’t let that happen.

Daxter leaps in front of him, blocking the exit. “Jak, stop, don’t run.” Jak falters, stumbling a few steps back, body quivering in an effort to stay upright. “It’s not your fault, big guy,” Daxter reassured, but the words have little effect. Jak is horrified by what he nearly did, tormented by whatever triggered the transformation. The brightness of the morning is shattered, left strewn at their feet like broken glass. “Stay, please.”

Jak hesitates, eyes darting frantically from Daxter to the door, the war raging within his mind is won moments later. Jak deflates, fight snuffed out, body trembling and all Dax wants to do is bundle him in blankets and make the pain and misery go away. But the walls are up, and they tower higher than he can reach. Head hanging in defeat, shoulders slouched with a weight Daxter cannot carry, Jak turns and disappears into the depth of the building.

At least he stayed.

  **~~X~~**

He should have run, should have fled the city weeks ago, left the towering walls and constant reminders in the dust. There was nowhere to go, nothing but harsh deserts to the west and wild seas to the north. Dead Town and Haven Forest only offered temporary escapes. There was nowhere to go, and yet Jak should have run. He wants so desperately to flee, to run until there is no air left in his lungs and no strength left in his legs. He stayed because Daxter begged him to.

God, he nearly killed Daxter.

He didn’t deserve to stay, but his best friend wouldn’t let him go.

The aftermath of the transformation leaves a lingering taste of blood and eco in his mouth, muscles ache and hands shake. Transforming is agony, body contorting and burning with eco fuelled rage, heart hammering and head pounding as horns split through skin and bone. The dark eco receding isn’t any less painful, world tilting and wilting until balance returns and eyes open to reveal the carnage left by the monster.

By some miracle today didn’t turn into a blood bath. At times Jak swears there is still blood under his nails, warm and wet, never able to be scrubbed clean. The pain doesn’t end once the beast is gone. Jak is never without dark eco; it’s seeped into his bloodstream, has woven into the very atoms that make up his being. It’s a part of him, and there is nothing that can purge it from his veins. The monster fades, but the pain remains, it beats in time with his heart, is a sharp, jolting sensation spreading through a tired, scarred body.

It renders him useless.

Jak stumbles towards the bed, falling like a house of cards onto the mattress, curling up in a pitiful heap of limbs and blankets. The overwhelming sense of guilt knocking the fight from aching bones. He should have more control over this by now; the Oracle warned that if he didn’t learn to control the dark powers, then it would destroy him. Praxis said it would kill him. Sometimes it feels like it might. Sometimes it feels like the grief inside his chest, the madness unfolding inside his mind will tear him apart.

Maybe he should let it, should walk into the wasteland and let the sand be his grave.

No more perfect weapon, no more toy soldier, no more falling apart.

Despair washes over Jak, dragging him down into dark, churning waters. Drowning, losing himself to the madness,  _the darkness_ , would be as easy as breathing through eco tainted lungs. The end of a transformation leaves more than a physical ache; it awakens a mental anguish Jak has yet to learn to cope with. Blocking out the world, he crawls under the covers like they are enough to protect him from the heartache and misery. Eyes close tight against the sting of tears, lips sealing firmly against the sobs begging to be freed.

Jak’s scared to let loose the hurricane, terrified that it will shatter what little of him remains. Instead, he buries it, sinks into the void. It’s pathetic,  _he’s_  pathetic, but he doesn’t need to be anything else. The City has been saved; there is no need for a reckless soldier or a dangerous weapon. Jak’s purpose has been filled, he is now obsolete, a broken boy living on borrowed time. Misery crests over him, hopeless thoughts carrying him from moment to moment, sending him spiralling down into a kingdom of desolation.

Jak breaks apart in the grey light of the afternoon, bitting back the swell of tears and swallowing sobs that rise like jagged, broken glass. He ignores it all, builds the walls higher and higher until he can’t feel a damn thing.

He is left numb, hollowed out, a ghost of the boy he used to be.

***

Jak succumbs to the darkness at some point, pain and fatigue forcing his mind to shut down. He sleeps without nightmares, woken what feels like centuries, but is only hours, later by the sound of feet scurrying in the kitchen. Jak listens to Daxter move about, identifies the whistle of the kettle, the squeak of hinges that need to be replaced because no amount of oil will fix them. A few minutes later and the bed dips slightly under Daxter’s weight, small hands poking into ribs, encouraging him to roll over.

Jak stays facing the window, guilt freezing him in place. The jabbing isn’t going to stop, Dax knows he’s awake and not a moment later he’s scurrying over Jak’s legs and crawling up to his face. Daxter flops down, back resting against Jak’s stomach, a silent declaration that he isn’t going anywhere. They are both just as stubborn as each other, but Jak owes Daxter more than the silent treatment. Tired eyes flutter open, admitting defeat.

“I made you some tea,” Daxter says, voice bright and chipper as always, “it’s getting cold.”

“Thanks, Dax.” Jak untangles himself from the covers, bodying aching and protesting as he rises.

“You okay?”

“I should be asking you that?” he dodges the question, eyes flickering from Daxter to his hands, which twist the covers between trembling fingers.

“I’m fine, tough guy.” Daxter flexes for show, offering a cheeky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I… ah, I’m sorry for whatever I said. I didn’t mean to upset you. Sometimes I should just keep my damn mouth shut.”

“It’s not your fault, Dax.” Jak shakes his head; brows pinched together in discomfort as the motions stirs awake a headache. “You didn’t know.”

Jak had never spoken to Daxter about what he endured at the hands of Erol. The memory ripped Jak from the safety of the bar, discarding him onto the cold, hard ground of his prison cell. In the space of a heartbeat, Jak found himself at Erol’s mercy, the memory distorting reality, blurring past with present. Jak never had the chance to protect himself that day or any day after. He’d lived in constant fear, fighting tooth and nail, clawing and thrashing, biting and kicking, doing anything and everything to escape. He fought valiantly. The Krimson guards always called him ‘ a wild one’, but then one day the fire was snuffed out.

The hopeful, bright, hero was destroyed by a violent act.  

“It’s not your fault either.” Daxter interrupts spiralling thoughts. “I trigged you, and tall, dark and gruesome came out to protect ya. It’s not your fault, and I know it wasn’t your choice.” Daxter stares up at him, eyes glistening with tears and burning with such intensity Jak is forced to look away.

He distracts him by reaching for the cheerful sunshine yellow mug that sits on the graffiti-covered crate that is being used as a nightstand. Daxter’s words sit uncomfortably on his skin, the empathy foreign after years of abuse and neglect. But Daxter cares, he truly fucking cares and that is such an unfamiliar concept that Jak has to replay the words several more times before they sink in. The Baron treated him like a weapon, something disposable if he didn’t work. The guards treated him with little care, as long as he didn’t escape or die between eco treatments then their jobs were done. Erol,  _Erol_ was wicked, took a twisted delight in breaking him, enjoyed shattering innocence and carving away the boy he used to be.

For two years he knew of nothing but unkindness and fear, every minute lonely, every hour dragging by agonisingly slow. In the end, time lost all meaning. There were no windows to gaze out of, no fresh air to breathe or sun to feel warm his skin. There was only cold, long days of hunger and misery, the only time spent outside of the cell was for eco treatments or the occasional shower, which were always freezing and humiliating.

There was no safe corner to hide in, no warmth or light to be found, every day an inescapable nightmare.

There was no kindness to be found in that hellish place. Even freedom didn’t bring warmth and joy, the people of Haven City were worn-down and battle-hardened. There was little comfort to be found in the crumbling streets. Jak quickly realised comfort and compassion were a luxury he wouldn’t be finding any time soon. He embraced the rage, the beast within and let it guide him. The kindness coming from Daxter should not be a surprise, they were best friends after all, and Jak shouldn’t reject it like he was unworthy of it.

Yet it feels wrong, misplaced.

 “Jak, you can talk to me.” Daxter hands toy anxiously with his tail, ears flattening in distress. “We need to talk about what happened eventually.”

“I’m trying, I am,” he deflated, head slamming with a painful thud against the brick wall behind the bed. He gazes up at the ceiling like it holds all the answers in the universe. “There’s so much, so many horrible things…” the words stick to his tongue, tasting like blood and eco. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Start anywhere,” Daxter suggested, voice edging on pleading, “the end, the middle? It doesn’t matter. You’re not going to heal if you keep everything locked inside, buddy.”

Jak looks back at Daxter, lips tugging into a half-hearted smile. “When did you get so wise?”

“Oh, well, you see-” he places a paw on his chest, voice confident and booming “-I have always been wise, but someone never listened to me.”

“Or maybe you have stories to tell too,” Jak deflected, taking a sip of his tea to emphasise his point.

“Well yeah, it was rough living in Haven all by my lonesome, but this isn’t about me.” Arms fold in determination; he’s not backing down. “One thing Jak, if you can, just tell me one thing.”

One thing? Where did he even start? Locked behind the towering walls sits a room, walls lined with rows upon rows of boxes, each contenting a painful memory. Jak would rather leave them to gather dust, can’t even stomach the thought of reaching into the depth to pluck one free at random. Dax is right though if he keeps on adding bricks to the walls, keeps running just so he doesn’t have to stand still, then he will never heal.

If he never heals than Erol wins. If he loses himself to the evil within then Praxis wins. They’ve taken enough from him, stolen innocence’s and youth, hurt him in so many ways and forced him to become something he never asked to be. He wasn’t Praxis’s ultimate weapon; he wasn’t Erol’s plaything. Not anymore. No matter how deeply it hurt, no matter how long it took he was setting himself free, shaking off the rust and cutting the ties that bind.

Dax was right here, had been the whole time, waiting for him with open arms. The knowledge of that sparks something within Jak, an ember flickering into the smallest of flames. It burns steadily against the dark. Jak meets Daxter’s eyes, words rising, sharp and bitter in his throat. “Erol said that to me…” he grimaced, shuddering at the memory. “Not long after I arrived, before the eco treatments begin, I tried to escape.” Daxter slips off Jak’s legs as he draws them to his chest. “Worst idea I ever had. I didn’t know where the exits were or even the layout of the place, I was just so scared that I ran.”

And he’s still running, still seeking something he’ll never have again.

“I bet you kicked some ass,” Daxter winks, it does little to ease Jak’s anguish, but he appreciates the gesture.

“More like I got my ass handed to me.” Arms instinctively wind around his legs, creating a barricade between him and the cruel world. “The crazy thing is, I tried escaping two more times after that.” He closed his eyes against the sting of tears, finding comfort in the soft touch of Daxter’s paw against his own. “Erol caught me the third time,” his voice breaks, the swell of emotions rising up his throat like ice, memory unfolding in his mind, so real he might as well be back there.

“Jak,” Daxter’s voice is thick with tears, each syllable cracked and jagged, “what did he do to you?”

“I can’t, Dax.” Jak shakes his head, refusing to speak, to reveal the horror of what Erol put him through. “Just remembering… it… it hurts too much.” The memory leaves him cold, stomach twisting into knots as the phantom pain echoes through his body. Erol showed no mercy, relished in the pain caused by brutal fist and bone-crunching stomps. Erol enjoyed extinguishing Jak’s last sliver of hope, slashed it to pieces with the touch of a sharp blade, crushed it to dust beneath his boots. Erol said he’d beg for mercy, and in the end, no matter how much Jak resisted and fought, he did.

And Erol showed him none.

Grief tears through him, a gut-wrenching sob exploding violently into the quiet air of the apartment. Jak bites his tongue; lips sealed tightly against the hurricane of emotions that are so close to breaking free. His throat burns from the effort, gasoline lungs straining in desperate need of air, one stroke of a match and they’d go up in flames.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Daxter darted forwards, closing the small amount of space between them. “You’re okay.” A furry hand rests on Jak’s cheek, small thumb smearing away a stray tear. “You did good, buddy.”

Jak leans into the touch, lungs expanding as he takes in a ragged breath, much-needed air soothing the burn, body shuddering violently on the exhale. It takes a several more ragged breathes before Jak can open his eyes and face Daxter. He offers a feeble, fragile smile to show that he is okay, which is a lie, he’s a thousand miles in the wrong direction of okay, but he no longer feels like he’s going to fall apart.

 Daxter returns the brittle smile, scampering up to sit on Jak’s shoulder. “I’ll be more careful with what I say in the future.”

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated, feeling the swell of misery ebb within his aching chest, “I appreciate it though.”

Daxter bumped his forehead against Jak’s as he says, “what are friends for.”

Jak feels a sliver of the darkness lift, smile brightening. “I missed you, Daxter.”

“I missed ya too, Jak.” He jumped back onto the bed, spinning around to face him. “Nothin’s gonna separate us again, okay?” He declared, words loud and full of conviction. “The demolition duo is back in business, and no one in this stinking city will tear us apart, alright?”

“Right.”

“This is our home now, Jak.” His voice softens. “This is our new life, and we have to embrace it. I know you’re feeling out of your depths and trust me I felt the same,” Jak sees something flicker in Daxter’s eyes, an unfamiliar glint of heartache and despair, it’s blinked away as quickly as it arose, “but in time you’ll get the hang of things. This place isn’t so bad if you look past all the ugly buildings and shitty people.”

“You’re really selling it, Dax.”

“Yeah, maybe we could live somewhere nicer, a little more tropical and less drab, but what are you gonna do?” he shrugs, flopping back down onto the bed, accepting their fate with a weary sigh. “We’re stuck here, but at least we’re free.”

Free.

Free is something Jak never thought he would be again.

Freedom was a dream; a fantasy chased into the silent, late hours of the night. Freedom arrived in the form of his best friend, was won with blood and death, never needing to be earned but feeling like it had to be. Skin felt the warmth of the sun again, the comfort of soft blankets and the familiar touch of friend’s hands. Jak found safety in a place that offered little. He was reunited with friends feared lost and made everlasting ones fighting for the survival of the city.

He found hope in a hopeless place, and hope was a word so close to home.

**Author's Note:**

> Not going to lie, this fic took a little while to get flowing, it was strange yet familiar stepping into Jak and Daxter's heads. I hope I got the characterisation right, while still giving them a bit more depth. The games never address Jak's trauma (which given the time and the age the game was aimed at is understandable), so I wanted to explore it and his struggle with living in a foreign place. It was challenging but ultimately rewarding, Jak and Daxter was my first fandom (first ever game completed too) so returning was like coming home. But in some ways, it was all new, as I am very far from the girl who first played these games.  
> I see so much value in Jak and Daxter's friendship; I see fantastic characters that could have been given many more stories.  
> I hope you enjoyed this little dive back into the J&D fandom; I have ideas for a sequel which would explore Jak's trauma more and allow him to understand what is happening to him. If you're interested, let me know :)  
> Until then, thank you for reading.


End file.
